The Last Constable of Nilbasse
by fluidstatic
Summary: In which Balthier discovers a remarkable inheritance, and from the last source he would ever expect.  AU; Balthier, Drace.
1. Prologue

**-Prologue-**

_Draklor, 708 O.V., Autumn_

The routine of any given day, no matter how ironic, no longer wears on Balthier's nerves. Rows of parchment are brought to his desk semi-hourly, abstractions of plans, blueprints, proposals. Slender spectacles sit reluctantly at the bridge of his nose as he scratches his increasingly tedious signature over each page (HH Msr. Ffamran M. Bunansa) until, his fingertips smudged with ink and wax, he leaves his office on Draklor's sixty-eighth floor. Perhaps he is needed in the machinist's lab to provide an extra set of hands, or the perfect arithmetic; perhaps he is summoned to the observatory, for conversation with nervously moneyed clientele; perhaps he travels – if reluctant - to the senate's roundtable, to offer magisterial opinion upon military strategy. He is loved by his employees, loathed by the senate, fiercely defended as brother-in-arms by Gabranth.

In absence of these luxuriant chores he is free to return to his ship, or to his loft above the aerodrome, where Fran waits with glad report from Balfonheim. She speaks in quiet tones of Vaan and Mjrn, of anarchy, of chosen family blossoming in the warmth of Reddas' legacy. Even as Balthier whines about the state of the empire, floating as she is in the narcotic haze of a peace she did nothing to earn, she loves him still, enduring his indolent annoyance with a sort of fond bemusement.

Balthier knew all the time that his place was here, using his cleverness for constructive aims. His father dead, his country at the threshold of new society, his actions pardoned, he thinks perhaps he knows the fabric of his past. He refuses to wear the medals rewarded him upon his return to Draklor, for he is no war hero. The drama of his piratical career was dazzling, as it lasted, but the spotlight is dimmed now, and turned upon other men; the strain of acting the almighty rogue has passed. Balthier is a lauded intellectual again. He is loved for his innovation, praised for his sense of right. If an Archadian's wealth is his intellect, it is said in the streets, then Judge Magister Bunansa is the richest man in Ivalice.

But the red leather book hidden in his desk whispers _You are a child and a fool, Balthier - you are wrong; you know nothing at all_.


	2. Chapter 1: The Will

**Chapter 1: The Will**

Balthier rises from his chair reluctantly, brows lifted in mild surprise. "Hail and well met, my Lord. Is Gabranth aware you're dashing about Ivalice on your own power once again?"

Balthier cannot help but be unnerved; Larsa Solidor wears his surname's shadow well. In the year and a half since Bahamut's fiery demise, the emperor has matured alarmingly. His hair tied away from his shoulders in a red silk ribbon strung with black diamonds, he holds an air of late adolescent maturity; yet out of humility (or perhaps nostalgia) he still wears the white silk gloves of a child. He smooths the milky fabric against a red leather book clutched in both hands, standing very still.

"It is a pleasure to see you well, master Ffamran," he begins. "You will give Fran my regards."

"Er... Naturally," Balthier agrees, gooseflesh rising on his neck. He has not been called by his former name since the war, sighting down the barrel of his rifle at Cidolphus' heart. Larsa is not a fool; he knows Balthier's preferences, and has never ignored them. There is weight in this aberration from the usual, and a deliberate distinction.

Balthier offers his Lord a thin, precise smile. "You'll forgive my alarm; the last time you came round without your cortege, I lived to regret the audience."

Larsa smiles in return, melancholy. "Your sacrifice is well noted. I do apologise."

Balthier shrugs, forcefully dismissive of darker times. "Not at all. Tell me, to what do I owe this most unexpected honour?"

Larsa straightens, a cloud of deep thought passing from his brow. "In this nascent peace of the empire, I find myself in error; a last request has been regrettably ignored. I come on behalf of the dead."

Balthier frowns. "What dead, my Lord?"

Larsa smooths his gloves against the leather book once again, with a sudden troubled look. "Her Honour Drace wished... That is, I..."

_Drace. _What dead, indeed; Balthier winces at his thoughtlessness.

Lost in mournful thought, Larsa sets the sanguine crimson book, gleaming with saddle oil, on Balthier's desk. "Read this, good Master Ffamran; send me your answer immediately after. A week, please, and no more. Matters of finance... ill-advised to linger upon..." He looks up from the book, pale eyes swimming. "Master Ffamran, I am dreadfully sorry... Truly. You will excuse me."

And before Balthier can request explanation the young Lord has flown passionately from his office, looking for all the world as though he may weep for days.

Balthier locks the door and leans against it. "I'm 'Good Master Ffamran,' then?" he murmurs to nothing, perplexed. "...Drace."

The book is older than he is, but it has been well tended, carefully oiled, pages evenly trimmed. The gilt edges of the volume are worn faint, but a fine sheen of gold rubs off on Balthier's fingertips as he thumbs it open to the first page. The handwritten passage is short; he skates through it as any other proposal.

But then one word, now two, and now several string together in a passionate plea that leaves his mind whirling and his eyes round with disbelief.

"What in the name of God...?" he whispers.

_**Seventeenth September 706 O.V.**_

_2234 hrs (cannot sleep)._

_This being the last will and testament of Her Honour Constable, Msr. Adelaine R. Drace, Nilbasse._

_I have served My Lord and My Empire in Her Grace without complaint these thirty years. But upon reflection I find myself at unbearable crossroads. To-morrow the eye of the basilisk turns on itself in malice (O, grave mutiny) and Vayne cannot be thwarted; I fear I shall not live to see the sun in the west. But it is my duty to defend Arcahdia from all who would destroy Her - yea, indeed even Herself – and this I shall do, unto death._

_My Lord Larsa will be well tended, and His glory fostered by hands steady and loyal; I fear not for Him. But there are none who know the import of my heart's charge, the secret Knight who, wiser than us all, fled in the name of Justice. O, I fear He is dead; yet if I am wrong, may whatever gods that be carry Him into peace. And too, if I am wrong, should the Prodigal return home, let it be known: I bequeath estate and monies, legacy and secrets all to His Honour Judicer, Ffamran Mid Bunansa, Tsenoble. _

_If one day by a miracle He espies this book and its secrets, I humbly pray: Traitor of Archadia, Last Hero of My Heart, forgive me._

_Adelaine R. Drace_


End file.
